


if i was running you’d be the one (who i would be running to)

by patriciaselina



Series: Second-Person Synthesis [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Sappiness to an illogical extreme, This can be pre-redrom if you want it to be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-20
Updated: 2013-03-20
Packaged: 2017-12-05 22:06:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/728414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/patriciaselina/pseuds/patriciaselina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You’ve never been one for placating children, and this is okay. You did not, however, anticipate that you would be sharing a flat with a child that wears dressing gowns all day, towers a good few inches above you, and calls himself the world’s only Consulting Detective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	if i was running you’d be the one (who i would be running to)

**Author's Note:**

> This is probably as hastily done as a fic could ever get. I gave myself an hour-long deadline to type out…something that would _not_ make me sad, after all; therefore, this is un-betaed and un-Brit-picked, but since when did I ever make a fic with both of those in the equation? Also, my insomnia apparently results in extreme levels of sappiness.

  


* * *

Your name is John Watson, and once more you find yourself praising the deities that made it so that when Harry was born, you were still a little boy, yourself.

Of course your parents wanted children – not just _a_ child, _children_ – and so it would not have been a surprise that your sister was born a few years after you. But there is another reason why you are so glad that you were still learning your toddler arithmetic when she was born – since you still had to be taken care of, you were still under no obligation to take care of her yourself.

It’s not that you are particularly _bad_ with children, no – you are a doctor, you obviously know something about patience – it’s just that all the times you put up with whiny children you have a high chance of not meeting again pale in comparison to the things you have to put up with from the only child you have already been pledge to love unconditionally.

It’s not that you don’t want to be a father when it comes to that, either – let’s just say that on that note, you’re glad you get to be the father. You don’t think that you’d make for a particularly nurturing presence.

So here is how things are, between you and children – you bear with them, stretch your patience as far as it could possibly go and then some, but you cannot, will not, shall not, live with them if you were given a choice.

This is true especially when the said child was not related to you in any way – and especially, of course, when the said child was no longer a _child_ , in every sense of the word.

Here is the thing about Sherlock Holmes that you never really saw coming: for a long-limbed man who would perpetually look more worldly and classy and mature a bloke than you ever will want to be, he manages to shatter any and all expectations from the moment one begins to trudge up the arduous task of living with him.

It’s not even the body parts in the fridge that haunt you, no – you are not some frail-hearted lass, you’ve been through war, through surgeries and more blood than a man should ever be able to see in a lifetime, surely some fingers stuck in the margarine tub won’t unnerve you? – it’s the fact that Sherlock Holmes manages to take all the things you’ve always hated in children, and exercise them to such lengths that you wonder if an actual gaggle of children would have anything on his irresponsibility.

He’s draped across the couch cushions when you arrive, facing the wall and curling in on himself like…well, like a _child_. You won’t have any of it, however, and so you take a dressing-gown clad shoulder in your hands and shake, thoroughly. “Sherlock. Sherlock. Stop pretending to be asleep and look at me.”

“For your information, John, I am not ‘pretending’ to be asleep, like the juvenile you obviously, erroneously think I am.” If there was anyone who managed to make turning around on a couch look so drawn-out and slow-motion, it would be Sherlock Holmes. You roll your eyes. “I am simulating the motions of sleep, for I have heard that apparently onlookers leave sleeping people alone, which is something that, had you done, would have left me to be with my thoughts. Apparently you are nosier than I imagined you’d have been, John.”

“That’s rich, coming from the man who hacks into my laptop and helps himself to my browser history each and every night.” You know that you are fighting a losing battle, but you rise to the bait – you cannot help it, he knows exactly what to say to make you snap back, just like he knows everyone else. But for some reason, you have recently noticed him spending special attention to understanding just how you tick. “Now get up. We _need_ to talk.”

“Ugh.” Sherlock sits up, suddenly, with a grace that always made you wonder whether or not he had been a prima donna ballerina in his past life. That subsequently makes you imagine him in a frilly pink tutu, and it takes all of your willpower to stop you from cracking up in front of him. You really did need to talk, after all. While you struggle with your wayward imagination, he continues on. “I keep telling you, John – it’s not hacking! Not if your password is so obvious you should have shared it on billboards around Central London. You really need to work on that, by the way. You never know who could take a keen interest in your…whatever it is you’ve got there, it’s so messy. Why do you keep your documents like a teenager keeps her notes? Again, _ugh_.”

“I _do_ know who takes a keen interest in my stuff. There’s this guy? He’s a strange man with a predilection for dressing-gowns and cheekbones I can split bricks on. I imagine you’d seen him before?”

“I was trying to imply the machinations of certain annoying – and not to mention, _frighteningly_ gluttonous – elder brothers who shall not be named, but I see that your mind has not caught up with mine yet, as is per usual.”

“Of course it’s as usual, Sherlock. No one could ever keep up with the pace you’ve got there, and you know that very well.” You roll your eyes, suddenly calm, and that’s where realization strikes. “Oh. _Oh_. Oh, damn you Sherlock, you’re _good_. Stop doing that.”

He looks at you then, _really_ looks at you, his eyes somehow managing to look innocent in every which way. Huh, looks like they’re ice blue this time. “Stop doing _what_?”

You wave a hand in front of you, trying to dissipate whatever traces of hypnosis his gaze might have had on you. You gravely hope you succeeded. “ _That_. Exactly. You’re stalling for time, Sherlock, don’t you dare think I haven’t noticed.”

Sherlock harrumphs like a positively pompous child, arms crossed and lips pursed. Had it not been for the looks and the height, you’d have thought he was a schoolboy deprived of allowance. “I do _not_ stall for time, John. The insistence that I ever could have been doing so is preposterous.”

“See? You’re doing it again. Now _sit_.” He does, but he even manages to make the very act of sitting down look so abhorrent – you suddenly feel a weird sense of pity for Mycroft, which goes as quickly as it comes. “I shall start the talking, since knowing you you’d divert the subject as you love doing. Let’s talk about the little stunt you pulled yesterday, shall we?”

“Dull.” Sherlock almost growls, uttering the word as if it was an actual filthy curse word. “Dull dull _dull_. So _boring_. Must you extrapolate on this even further?” His arms, you note, are still not uncrossed.

“Yes, we shall, and yes, we will, whether you like it or not. I will talk, and you will listen, and answer when prompted, of course.”

“What makes you so sure I won’t just go off and disregard everything you say, like I am so very obviously prone to do?”

“Oh, but you forget who you are talking to, Sherlock Holmes.” He raises an eyebrow at that, and you can hear the bells in your head tolling _mayday, mayday!_ and yet you still disregard them. There has to be some bluff that can escape the sieve of his almighty deductions, you tell yourself. “I will make sure that you listen. Now, tell me, since I very obviously have no idea why anyone in their right mind would do so – why did you contact her?”

His face would seem to be, to the outsider’s eye, devoid of all motion, but you know better. And so you know that he winces as you speak. Sherlock Holmes, wincing? The press would have a field day, but thankfully these are the little slips he lets pass when he only has you to see. “I don’t see why I was not supposed to contact her. She is a medical professional, John, it is perfectly normal for one to ask for a professional second opinion, even if said professional would spend hours looking for something I would have understood in _seconds_ – ”

“She is a dermatologist, Sherlock, and you have skin that can put expensive porcelain to complete and utter _shame_.” He raises his eyebrow at that, and your mind dissolves into thinking: _whoops, that was a compliment I just said, wasn’t it_? “There is absolutely _no_ reason why you should have been talking to her.”

Despite the blatant and obvious boost to his insatiable ego, your flat mate, bless his soul, manages to continue on in the least inconveniencing way possible – by trying hard as he can to not look smug, and inevitably failing. “There is a thing called maintenance, John. I imagine you’ve heard of it, what with being a doctor, after all.”

“Okay. So I am to imagine that the genius who can’t even notice that he put his shirt on backwards is the same man who’d care so much about his skin that he’d barge into a perfectly decent dermatologist’s office to ask for, as you so astutely put it, a ‘second opinion’? Well then, color me surprised.”

The bother tainting Sherlock’s expression as he glances down to his shirt collar would have been adorable, in some parallel universe. As it was, it only serves to make him more obvious. “It’s for an experiment. I doubt you’d understand.”

“Oh, but I _do_. It’s always an experiment for you, isn’t it, Sherlock?” You raise your eyebrow, putting up your best barricade of snark while your mind spews out warning signals: _dangerous, do not engage, do not engage._ “It’s not even enough that you barged into the nice woman’s office – while she was even having a very _important_ appointment, even!”

Sherlock smirked at that, arms relaxing a tad. “Oh, but it’s not my fault that when I arrived, she was checking for something that very obviously wasn’t there on the patients b – ”

“Sherlock, _shush_.” You press a finger to his lips, impulsively, hoping to God who may still be listening that this would not be the time he decides to bite a finger off ‘for science’. “And you didn’t stop there, even! So I shall ask you this, and let me say it quick: why did you say that to her?”

From what little of him you can feel from your finger pressed up against his still-moving lips, you can feel him minutely relaxing, although the slight tremor in his voice belies his nerves. “I only told her what she had to hear.” Surprisingly still, he does not move to remove your offending hand from his person; rather, he keeps on talking, looking at you even, as if there was no part of your anatomy that was in any way pressed up to any part of his.

This is growing to be slightly awkward.

You pull your hand away, slowly, carefully, as if the slightest of wrong moves would make him dissolve into the atmosphere. Putting on your best serious face, and using your best soldier voice, you press on. “And, pray tell, boy genius, why does she need to hear that she is a – oh, what was it again – ‘vile excuse of a person who shan’t get anything more than the little she deserves for as long as she lives’? If you tell me _again_ that this is just for an experiment, I will throttle you, do not even _dare_ to tempt me.”

There’s this miniscule movement he makes, almost as if he’s huddled around himself, hiding behind his angular shoulders and his curly hair. But he is Sherlock Holmes and he does not hide, so you don’t think he is at all embarrassed. Sure looks the part, though. “I was merely stating a fact.”

“Of course, of course, I never should have asked.” Your voice just drips with sarcasm today, so much that you’re wondering why you haven’t both drowned in it by now. “Are you sure you shouldn’t have had chosen a better time to state it, though?”

“But.” And here he scratches his nose, almost as if finding a way to hide an emotion – was that the curling of a lip, or a twitch of the mouth? – behind the dark blue sleeve of his dressing-gown. “I didn’t have much time.”

He says this with such seriousness that you cannot help but worry about him, how did such paternal instincts come now when you are left alone with your flat mate and not when your girlfriend decides she’d make you babysit her little brother? “That’s exactly why you should have told me what the plan was. Now, tell me: was she the missing link in a quiz, the victim, or the suspect? Inquiring minds need to know.”

“None of the above. She’s not in any of our cases at all,” _But I sure as hell hope she was_ , you can read his expression tacking on as clearly as pure freshwater. “Still doesn’t mean I have much time left. She was thinking of making her move tonight.”

“Sorry – what?”

“So you mean you didn’t know?” He asks you suddenly, almost urgently, looking at you once more. “You really, _really_ didn’t know?”

“It would be nice to know whatever that was before I keel over and inevitably expire, would it not?

“You really did have no idea. _Interesting_.” He almost looks amused, like he always was when it came to meddling. Amused, and, _wait for it_ , worried. “And here I was thinking she could not possibly have been any more obvious. Guess that’s an average brain for you.”

“Ha-ha, very funny.”

“You really did not notice anything? John, how many times have you met her?”

“ _Once_ , Sherlock. Just the once, and don’t you dare insist otherwise. You were there.”

“Yes, yes, I _was_ there, but that is irrelevant.” Sherlock steeples his entwined fingers, as he always does when he’s thinking, but there is an unknown undercurrent to his words, one he is vainly struggling to fight against. “Was it not obvious to you back then?”

“No. And just so you know, unlike you, Sherlock, I am not a mind reader.”

“Okay, fine.” He leans back against his chair, putting that wide expanse of pale neck on display. It’s almost as if he’s posing for a photo shoot, you muse idly. Like he was some kind of odd avant-garde model, all angles and ethereality. “Since some people oh so obviously need to have things spelled out for them like _little children_.”

He mumbles through this with such petulance that the irony is irresistibly _delicious_.

“She was hitting on you. There, I said it. Can this conversation be over now?”

“Oh, but I don’t think it can, Sherlock.” You reply, half annoyed and half intrigued. Seems like you will just have to help yourself to yet another serving of untimely deduction. “I’m obviously not as observant as you are, but I am sure I’d be able to _not_ miss it when someone hits on me. Explain.”

“She wasn’t hitting on you _then_ , of course. Obvious.” He rolls his eyes, untangles and entwines his fingers over and over, trying to affect nonchalance. “She was planning on doing so, though. From the desperation on her, I was able to conclude that she would not be using that business card of yours to offer actual useful information, like you hoped she would, but she shall be using it to further her own purposes. Just as she always had.”

There seems to be something he’s not telling you, however, an actual reason to all this vitriol directed to a random stranger. So you do what every sane man would not have done, and press on. “And…?”

“That woman is very obviously a _vulture_ , John.” He continues, almost seeming wary this time, as if he had suddenly actually regressed to childhood. “She wasn’t even gaping at you with the usual admiration that women usually bestow upon you, she was looking at you like you were something to eat and dispose of immediately. And I – oh, never you mind. People. _Ugh._ ”

“I _do_ mind, Sherlock. And you did _what_ , exactly?”

There are countless plans of action that you are expecting from his end, but you do not expect Sherlock focusing his eyes on the ground as he very pointedly does not look at you. “I – I got her away from you. It just would not have been equitable in the slightest.”

You hem and haw as you peer at him from under his dark curls, looking for the specific sign that ticked you off that there was something wrong with this picture, ultimately coming up with none. “You are aware that this is a bit not good, aren’t you.”

An exhalation of breath, and then: “Yes. Yes, I knew you would not approve of it, for whatever reason you might have had.” There is something different in his eyes now, something that could almost have been described as ‘sad’. “You would have not approved, and you don’t even know her. That is exactly why I did not tell you.”

“Oh, but _you_ don’t know her either, Sherlock.” You find the way you wag your finger at him eerily like a gesture made by a chastising father, but you decide to file that away for later. “You obviously deduced everything there is to deduce about her, but you don’t actually, as you so astutely put it, _know_ her. And neither do I, as you have just said. So, once more, _why_?”

Sherlock untangles his fingers and brings both hands to his face, pressing hard. “All right, fine.” You can hear the almost-inaudible mumbling sound of his voice – _eins, zwei, drei_ , - counting off German numerals like a faraway chant. After what seems to be forever (read: five minutes), he turns to you, suddenly, and says:

“I told her to stay away from you because I absolutely shall not, could not, will _not_ stand to see you hurt by that woman.” He bites his lower lip then, and for a moment you can swear that you can hear him mentally willing himself to say more. “Not that she would ever have _actually_ hurt you beyond repair, but she has a predilection for the dramatic and I wasn’t going to take my chances, especially when there was a real and actual probability that you were going to say yes. She is a lying, thieving, cheating mess of a woman and I do not want you to have to play to her whims.”

A pause, and then: “You are too _good_ , John. She does not deserve you,” Sherlock exhales in an almost-sigh, as if he had only barely noticed what he had just said. You know that because the time when he does notice is painfully obvious, for it is the time when he continues on, in a quicker pace than usual. “– I have heard that it is common practice for friends to worry about each other’s emotional welfare. This is something that can be construed as doing such a thing, isn’t it?”

You should have been mad at him for meddling in your affairs (not because of this admittedly little thing, but just – in general), but, for once, bless his soul, your little consulting detective looks so clueless. Had he been the little child he usually acts like, you would have hugged him by now, like what you did to console your cousins when they were little. But as it was, doing so would only make things even more awkward.

“Of course, I am perfectly aware.” He starts once more, without preamble, almost scaring you out of your skin had you been a lesser man. “I am aware that I do not deserve such a…such a friendship, either. I take pride in my superior intellect and in my blunt honestly, but I lie and I wound and I steal. But for some reason I cannot comprehend,” – and here he looks at you as if he finally understood the workings of the solar system, only he had it in reverse and really actually thought that _you_ were the sun –  “you remain. And so I told myself that if you did not want me to protect you from myself…”

 _I would protect you from everything else,_ he thinks but does not say. Let it be known that Sherlock Holmes is not the only one who can read thoughts off somebody’s face. You can, as well, but only when it applies to him: you know that this is exactly what he thinks because you have seen that face before – in the mirror, numerous times, usually all related to _his_ security, somehow.

“Sherlock,” you say, and for once it almost sounds like an endearment and not a curse word. “Don’t be ridiculous. C’mere.”

“But –”

“Just come here, now.” You wave at him carelessly, beckoning for him to come closer. He moves slowly, carefully, as if fearing you might break or dissolve or spontaneously combust. It takes time, but you both find yourselves on the sofa, and you swallow down what seems to have been apprehension and sling an arm around his shoulder.

Sherlock looks at you, worried, as if you suddenly had acquired a second head, but you card your fingers through his dark curls in the hopes of placating him. “Now shush and don’t try to read anything overt off of this, or I swear to God you will find yourself with actual random bald spots. Just answer me, one word, yes or no – Sherlock Holmes, did you…generally wreak havoc on that woman’s thoughts in order to drive her off from asking me out, because you were _worried_ about me?”

He opens his mouth, as if ready to start yet another one of his spiels, but he remembers your words and your fingers mussing his hair and he closes his eyes, nods his head.

There is a vague feeling that makes you believe that your heart is going to burst, but that is preposterous and anatomically impossible right now so you try to ignore it and fail miserably. “Okay then. Your methods leave something to be desired, but I find it, ahh, how do you say this? Flattering? Wondrous? Touched? That’s the word, I guess. I’m touched that you worry about me so, Sherlock, but I am not a child.”

Once more he opens his mouth to speak, but you tug on his curls and he relents. “I appreciate the effort, but I will get hurt somehow, although I doubt I would in such a magnificent capacity, as you had thought. And after I get hurt, do you know what I would do next?” He shakes his head, and you continue. “I’ll pick myself up and get myself together, and I’ll run around London with you. I’ll go on your cases with you. I’ll remind you to eat. I’ll watch you almost but not quite blow up the kitchen, I’ll change the password on my laptop so you can crack it and get all smug. Somewhere along the way, I will be hurt just like everyone else, but I’ll be okay. And I guess you already know why.”

Sherlock licks his lips, contemplating this. As he does so you think that you probably could have worded this better – as it was it was equal parts sappy and embarrassing, but as it was it was the truth.

Sherlock Holmes is a very infuriating man and your very best friend, and you know he deserves nothing less than the truth.

“I share the exact same sentiment,” he says, quietly, not even scoffing at the word ‘sentiment’ like he is so prone to. “and it would be false of me to say I understand wholly, but I understand better now.”

“Good.” _We’ll be all right_ , you think, drawing him closer to you. “It would be best if we didn’t speak of this, though. You know. People do like to talk.”

“They do little else,” he murmurs from where his curly head of hair is nestled beside your chest, perfectly content. “And we don’t need to speak of this. It’s plain for everybody else to see we are friends and we will eviscerate the world for one another.”

“‘Eviscerate’ is such a strong word, but sure, fine, I know what you mean.” He yawns, and you are suddenly reminded of the fact that, if you remember correctly, Sherlock had been having very little sleep for three days, now. “Now never mind me and go to sleep, you incorrigible little dolt. I’m not going anywhere.”

Somewhere from behind his drowsiness Sherlock finds the capacity to raise an eyebrow at you, so you clarify. “So maybe I will go somewhere, anywhere. But I’ll always come back. Is that sufficient?”

It is a sudden moment of clarity when his sleep-weary face turns to you with a smile so bright and so actually, truly _genuine_ that you think he has never smiled like that before.

“More than enough,” Sherlock replies, and falls asleep.

You grin at him, madly, and follow him in slumber - just as you follow him in everything else - shortly after.

 

**END**

**Author's Note:**

> Trying my hand at sappiness for once. It’s obviously not my forte. Title comes from _Find A Way_ by SafetySuit, and said line used as title is my quintessential JohnLock maxim.
> 
> Looking back on this very, very, very hastily done fic, I have noticed that you could look at this from whichever kind of goggles you’ve got on. If you think they become an actual romantic honest-to-goodness couple after this, or remain a pair of frighteningly codependent friends, in the immortal words of Doctor John Watson, it’s _all_ fine.
> 
> When I was writing this, however, the only thought I really had in mind was my little brother Hunter (who is very obviously going to be his generation’s Sherlock Holmes, as you may see [here](http://patriciaselina.tumblr.com/post/45717747406/patriciaselina-i-am-quite-possibly-the)), and how he loathes any male being who is trying to get my attention with a passion unheard of in a baby his age. We’re best friends, despite the blasted age gap, and we look after each other in our own idiosyncratic ways, and the way Sherlock acts here is basically a verbal version of how my brother fusses over me. Ditto with John – the exasperation and yet the genuine brotherly affection, that’s pretty much as nice as I can get.
> 
> And yes, such a situation has happened in the past, between the two of us – I once had a male friend who had been nice to me at the time, but when Hunter met him he absolutely exploded and basically showed my then-friend that he did not want to be there with him. A few months after, said male friend did something Definitely Not Good, and I realized Hunter had known it all along. Instinct, maybe?
> 
> He currently has no qualms about my blatant palecrush on Benedict Cumberbatch, however, which is Very Good.
> 
> And as usual I am talking too much so I shall just end it here. Thanks for reading this far! God, I love this fandom.


End file.
